Average

6 out of 10 was the average of the German quiz I received back today. 60%. Apparently that's a fairly average mark for a language class; according to my professor. I've never thought of myself as average. Generally I'm a bit over par when it comes to schoolwork, but today it was there, staring me in the face. Keith Dow is average.  

Incidentally, three out of the four marks I lost were mis-translations of the word "Teil" or "part." Where the sentences contained "Teile," which is plural, I mistook for "Teil," one singular part. The truth is, I don't like thinking of myself as one part among many. I recognize that I am a part; there is no way to avoid this in being distinct in the world. I merely fail to make the necessary connection that there are numerous other parts; that I am not as distinct or unique as I sometimes would like to think I am.  

One of the things that I most enjoy doing, and that which I've occasionally received compliments about, is writing. I enjoy language and expressing my thoughts; apparently, though, my mind doesn't work in such a way so as to easily grasp languages. Greek was my first indication of this, as my friends quickly shot ahead of me in marks when second semester came around. Now I'm finding German a challenge. It's discouraging to realize that perhaps even those gifts we think we have are not as profound as we once thought.  

As I stepped on the dingy bus, filled with people I'd never know and whose lives would never touch mine more than a passing glance, I saw as though for the first time the shadow of insignificance that haunts each of us.  

The Possibility of Possibilities 

 I've never been one to stop dreaming. We live in a passionless age, one where the idea of an infinite universe dwarfs any step our finite feet might take, but each of us hang onto some thread of identity that somehow makes each further step possible and every action significant; if only for ourselves. Indeed, in an empirical sense the most we will ever be able to be is dying dirt. Our bodies break down a little more each day as entropy takes its toll, and the accumulation of worldly wealth we gather is no more than a grain of sand on a freckle on the backside of the world. Even the effort we invest with our whole life in building something of significance will soon be forgotten. The people we affect will die, and the memory of our interaction on this earth - for good or for evil - will quickly be forgotten. Even the greatest men in history are now no more than an empty shell of who they were; a name, an image, or an accomplishment. The monuments we establish will do no more than bear our hollow name until they are torn down to be replaced by another monument, of someone whose name will be forgotten just as quickly as ours. Emily Dickinson wrote the poem "I dwell in possibility:"

I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior - —for Doors— Of Chambers as the Cedars— Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky— Of Visitors - —the fairest— For Occupation - —This— The spreading wide of narrow Hands To gather Paradise—

I don't know the first thing about the Emily Dickinson, except that apparently she was a bit kooky. I don't like how many hyphens she uses. If B. F. Skinner were here, he'd definitely skin her. Ha. He would say that there's no use talking about possibility because there really is no such thing as an autonomous man. Being products of our environments, possibility is nothing but the future effects of environmental necessity. Even the chemicals in our brain that we perceive to be the idea of possibility are a direct result of our environment and their explanation could be found in a purposeless event that happened three years ago. 

If you're not into the atheistic types, perhaps you'd prefer Spinoza. He'd say that it's emotionally enslaving to talk about ourselves as being free as modes of God in a world that must necessarily be entirely determined by God, so anything we do is completely out of God's necessity. He and Calvin could have some interesting discussions. Oh, and Spinoza would add that the God we think is God really isn't because we essentially make Him in our own image, projecting our desire for the world to run according to our wishes onto Him and so say that He orchestrates everything for our benefit. 

I'm sure Freud would jump in here (although he and Spinoza would probably kill each other) and add that our perception of God stems from prehistoric man and tribal rituals and our idea of God as Father finds its roots in repressed sexual urges and as a religious community we make up invisible metaphysical concepts in order to keep one another in line and to abate the guilt that comes from our carnal instincts and subconscious passions. 

The experiences we have here on earth and the knowledge of how the world operates truly do seem to back up our insignificance. From this standpoint, any empirical way you look at it, we don't really accomplish much being down here. In fact, if the end or telos of each one of us is death, then wouldn't we be best fulfilling our purpose if we just died?  

Beyond Possibility  

Strangely enough, there are still a lot of people living out there. I saw a bunch of them on that bus. Many of them had their heads down and didn't look too happy. Not many were smiling. They were all pretty average. A lot of them were ugly. I don't think many of them were good at sports. A lot looked like they'd be pretty dumb, too. Even the ugliest, dumbest brutes of them all, though, were still alive. Apparently there's something in the human spirit that hangs on regardless of empirical data. Each silly person still hung onto the dream of their identity; the dream that they were making a bit of a difference in the world somehow, to someone. Some were obviously closer to realizing that their lives wouldn't make much of a difference than others, but even they still hung on. 

One of my favourite bands is Dogwood. You've probably never heard of them, and you might not ever hear of them again unless it's from me. Their first albums were probably the worst music ever made, and some people find his voice horrible. I think his voice is tremendous in a rough and non-singing sort of way. Here's a song of theirs called 1983:
 

When we were kids, our dreams were invincible,
When we were young, our whole lives ahead of us,
And it was well understood we'd all become astronauts,
And firemen,

Let's not pretend, we all become famous,
Let's not pretend, there's more to this then we hoped for,
For we knew the rules when we were still children,
You blow it,
You fail it,
Disappointment.

It's well on it's way, well understood,
And you have a place, to be (when we were young),
Time on our hands,
Still out of our hands, just like rain (it rained so hard),
Time ran away, and left us afraid,

Your parents are proud,
You've got everything,
No passion at hand,
You'll be Ivy League,
It's more probable,
We all become salesmen,
You know it,
You fear it,
Mediocrity.

It's well on it's way, well understood,
And this is your life,
Don't apoligize for what you are,
Because you're a star.

I hope you find contentment,
I pray you find an answer,
'cause life is better than your occupation,
Revelation.

When we (when we were young) were,
Time on our hands,
Still out of our hands,
Just like rain (it rained so hard)
Time ran away, and left us afraid.

Sometimes I sense the fear they sing about. The fear of mediocrity and disappointment. At these times I cannot dwell in possibility. I can long to dwell in possibility, but I can't dwell there. As an eternal refuge it's far too destructable. If possibility were my only guide, I would have fallen off the cliff a long time ago. Gravity, as the nature of everything to fall down and to fall in upon itself, would have cast me off the heights before I had even looked for a place to dwell. Empirically I know my possibility is limited. There are a few people in my life who see possibility in me, and their support is the foundation of almost all possibilities that have been realized in my life. Even during those times when I realize how much possibility will fail to come to fruition in my life they help me to aim for the potential that is there.

Where I Dwell 

Through the most empirical times, though, when not even their cheers make it onto the court of reality and any confidence I had in personal significance was long ago abandoned, there are still Arms that hold me. The psalmist writes,

"He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty" -Psalm 91:1

This is where I ultimately dwell; not in possibility but in the secret place of Yahweh, the Great I Am. He is the First and the Last, and He knows all that I have been, all that I am, and all that I ever will be. In Him I am not merely one of many indistinguishable Teile, for I am a Teil of His family and He has led me, Keith Dow, to His secret place and has hidden me under His mighty shadow. I know that in Him who has no need to simplify everything that I am finds its roots and grows. While I am here on earth He enables me to dwell both in His secret place and in possibility. To the human mind these are unreconcilable, for the one who abides under the shadow of the Almighty is he who has abandoned Self; who has given up all hope of ever achieving anything on his own, who has shunned the illusion of possibility. With man this is impossible, but with God nothing is impossible. The last shall be first and His strength is made perfect in my weakness. Through Him who is able to do more than we can ask or imagine, I find the weakness to let Him work His strength through me. Does the shadow of insignificance still haunt my every step?  Looking into the light of Christ's victory, I pray that my life will fade away, so that His life might shine through me all the more clearly.